


Euphoria is You For Me

by reginalds



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-11 20:23:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5640682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reginalds/pseuds/reginalds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hello, sunshine,” Grantaire says, and throws his arms wide. “Of all the coffee shops in all the towns in the world, he walks into mine.” </p><p>“I’m pretty sure the Musain is Musichetta’s,” Enjolras says, and then, “Don’t call me sunshine.” </p><p>[Title from the big love letter to Brooklyn graffitied on that parking garage near downtown Brooklyn. Here’s a <a href="http://cdn.brownstoner.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/euphoria-you-for-me.jpg">visual</a>, to set the scene.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Euphoria is You For Me

The first time Enjolras meets Grantaire, it’s the start of autumn, and he’s walking a strange dog through the local community garden.

It’s Courfeyrac’s parents' dog, and he’s been looking after it, and buying it toys, and taking hundreds and hundreds of photos of it while they’re in Rome to celebrate their thirtieth wedding anniversary. Courfeyrac had had a date the night before, though, and he’d whined loudly and at length about the restaurant he’d chosen not allowing dogs, until Combeferre had sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and offered to take the dog home to the apartment he shares with Enjolras for the evening.

It was only supposed to be for the evening, until Courfeyrac texted gleefully to say that he’d be spending the night with his date, and when Enjolras came home from a late night at work, it had been to find Combeferre studying on the floor of their living room while a golden retriever nosed curiously at the corners of his medical textbooks.

Combeferre just rubbed his eyes at Enjolras’ pointed look, and said: “We’ll return him tomorrow morning.”

The only problem with that is that Combeferre has already left for his shift at the hospital when Enjolras drags himself out of bed and nearly falls over the golden retriever outside of his bedroom door.

He blinks at the dog for a full minute, before sighing, running his hand through his tangled hair, and stumbling off to the kitchen to make a mug of coffee. There’s a note on the coffeemaker from Combeferre that reads: _Courf says he’ll bring you coffee at work for a week if you walk the dog_.

Enjolras sighs again, at length, batting at the coffeemaker until it turns on, and stumbles back to his bedroom, the dog trailing cheerfully in his wake.

It’s nearing the end of September, and he pulls on jeans and a sweater while the coffee brews, tugging a hat over his messy curls, and bending over to tentatively pat the dog between the ears on his way back to the kitchen.

He tips the coffee sloppily into a travel mug he’s had since he was a freshman in high school – it’s still his favourite, even though the printed portrait of Emma Goldman it boasts is faded nearly beyond recognition. He makes his way out of the door with the coffee mug in one hand and the leash looped around the other, letting the dog pull him down the stairs of their third-floor walk-up.

It’s crisp and sunny outside, and he stops on the stoop of their building to draw in a lungful of fresh air, before pulling at the leash with more confidence than he feels to lead the dog in the direction of their community garden.

He drinks his coffee as he goes, the caffeine mellowing out his earlier annoyance at being saddled with a dog he never asked for, and allows the golden retriever to lead him in a meandering path down the sidewalk. They pause at every other street corner while the dog sniffs cheerfully at trashcans, fire hydrants, and subway stairs, before returning to Enjolras’ side to knock his wet nose against his ankles.

The local community garden is something that Jehan has been involved with since he was small, living around the block with his family, and helping his maman grow yams. He organizes volunteers to staff the vegetable stand, and tend the garden in the summer, and can be found there most weekends, talking to his root vegetables, and singing along to the reggae music from the boombox he brings with him.

Enjolras leads the dog inside the garden, hoping it will do in lieu of an actual park. There’s grass, at least, and a colourful hodgepodge of flowerbeds, and a flourishing vegetable garden. Jehan’s zucchini are out of control: he’ll have enough zucchini bread to feed a small army – or at least Bahorel – soon.

He’s looking at the ornamental cabbages growing beside the zucchini, which someone – probably Jehan – has planted in a lopsided mandala, when the dog’s ears prick up at the sound of barking coming from the other side of the garden, and he finds himself being dragged unceremoniously through a bed of pachysandra before he understands what’s going on. He’s just recovered enough to tug on the leash when he collides forcefully with someone and there’s a vertiginous moment of trying not to fall over.

He gets a handful of sharp elbow and warm shoulder, and abruptly finds himself standing chest to chest with a shockingly handsome stranger, a leash wrapped tightly around the back of his knees, while their dogs get acquainted.

The man has very bright, brown eyes that are wide open in something Enjolras doesn’t quite know how to quantify. They gape at each other for a moment, and then he leans back, trying to get himself some space to breathe, and they over-balance, going down in a tangle of dog leashes and limbs. The stranger pushes himself up by bracing a firm, tanned hand on Enjolras’ chest, and they stare at each other for a moment longer before Courfeyrac’s parent’s damn golden retriever barks happily and licks Enjolras’ chin.

“No,” Enjolras says, twisting out of reach of the dog’s excited ministrations, “bad dog, stop that.”

Above him the stranger chuckles, and manages to sit up and extricate himself from the dog leashes. His dog, a slobbery bulldog who has done nothing but wheeze ineffectually at them throughout the entire exchange, comes immediately to his side, and receives an affectionate rub on the head.

“I didn’t think that kind of thing happened outside of romantic comedies,” the man says, pulling at the leashes to untangle his own from Enjolras’.

Enjolras, caught off-guard by the knuckle tattoos he can see peeking out from the worn sleeves of the hoodie the man is wearing, hums in agreement. His face feels warm, and he’s not entirely sure why. The golden retriever takes advantage of his distraction to lick across his cheek, and he sputters, rubbing a hand against his face to clean himself off, and the man laughs again.

“That’s a nice dog,” he says, getting to his feet. “Very friendly.” He holds out a hand to help Enjolras up, and Enjolras blinks, and feels a rush of disappointment when the sleeves of the man’s hoodie slip back down over his tattoos.

“He’s not mine,” Enjolras mutters, collecting the leash. “I’m looking after him for a friend, I don’t even know his name.”

“You don’t know his name?” The stranger drops back to his knees and gathers the golden retriever in an enthusiastic embrace. He ruffles strong hands over the dog’s ears, and checks the tag around his neck quickly. “Reggie,” he says, grinning up at Enjolras, who actually has to take a step backwards at how bright his smile is. “His name’s Reggie.” He gets back up in a single, fluid move, and the dog – Reggie – barks. The stranger smiles at Enjolras and then glances down at the muddy Chuck Taylor’s he’s wearing.

“I’m Grantaire,” he says, “sorry about running into you all One-Hundred-and-One-Dalmations style back there.” He holds out a hand, and Enjolras shakes it.

“Enjolras,” he says, back on familiar territory at last. His handshakes, according to Courfeyrac, are legendary. “It’s at least half my fault. I don’t really know how to control the dog. Reggie,” he amends, reaching down to give the dog another tentative pat.

Grantaire waves it off like it’s no big deal. “It’s not every day you have a meet-cute with an attractive stranger beside a bed of spaghetti squash,” he says, grinning. Enjolras flushes, his stomach tightening unexpectedly at another bright smile.

“I have to… go.” He says, turning away from Grantaire’s crooked grin, and casting around wildly for an excuse that will make up for his rudeness. “I have to tell Jehan to stop growing root vegetables, excuse me.”

“You know Jehan?!” Grantaire says, and his dog barks at his owners’ excitement. He bounces once, excitedly, his short, messy curls bobbing as he does so. “Dude’s the coolest! I think he has everything Anne Carson has ever written committed to memory.”

“That… does sound like Jehan,” Enjolras admits, squeezing the plastic leash in his hand until he can’t feel any of his fingers. “We went to school together,” he offers, when Grantaire just keeps smiling at him. “He lives with my friend Courfeyrac, now.”

“Oh shit,” Grantaire says, looking delighted. “Oh shit, is that _Courfeyrac’s_ dog?”

“You know Courfeyrac?” Enjolras asks, parroting Grantaire. He takes a moment to flip through his mental face book. He’s nearly positive he never met Grantaire before, not at a rally, or through work, or in some seedy beer garden his friends had taken a liking too.

“Yeah!” Grantaire enthuses. “Well, kind of. He knows my roommate, Bahorel, and we all drank an unholy amount of tequila a couple of weekends ago, and he wouldn’t stop talking about this dog he’s babysitting.” He gives Enjolras a lopsided grin. “Do you know Bahorel, too?”

Enjolras nods, succinctly, feeling unsettled. He'd heard about that tequila bender from Courfeyrac, who’d complained about his hangover for two days straight, and he knew that Bahorel had a new roommate, but he didn’t know who it was. It’s strange, to have been living a nearly parallel life to Grantaire.

“I really do have to go,” he says, and tries to ignore the way Grantaire’s face falls. He pulls at the leash to drag Reggie away from a nearby plot of mustard greens, and steps away from Grantaire and his smile and his drooling bulldog.

“It was nice to meet you,” he offers, and winces internally at how half-hearted it sounds.

Grantaire’s smile isn’t as bright this time, but it makes Enjolras’ heart thump in his chest the way it does when he’s nervous. He swallows heavily, takes a deep breath, and tugs at the leash again.

He doesn’t look back, but he can feel Grantaire’s eyes between his shoulder blades all the way out of the garden.

+

The second time Enjolras runs into Grantaire, they’re both moving at full speed across Grand Army Plaza. It’s a gorgeous October morning, and Enjolras is out for a jog, his mind busy with thoughts of his latest case.

“It’s Saturday,” Combeferre had said, throwing a windbreaker at Enjolras, and wrapping a scarf around his own neck. He meets Eponine for coffee every Saturday, and neither of them will admit that they’re dating – both have independently insisted that they’re completing a methodical study of each coffee shop in Brooklyn – but even Enjolras knows they’re dating, and it took him two months to realize that Marius and Cosette were together.

“It’s a beautiful day,” Combeferre had continued. “Your work will still be here on Monday. Go outside. Go for a run.”

“Doctor’s orders?” Enjolras had asked, picking up the windbreaker, and smothering a smile as Combeferre pulled on the deep blue blazer he only ever wore when he wanted to impress someone.

“Med student’s orders,” Combeferre countered. “Get some fresh air. Please.”

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with you wanting to bring Eponine back here after your coffee date, would it?” Enjolras asked, digging his running shoes out from beneath Combeferre’s copies of last week’s _New Yorker_.

“It’s not a date,” Combeferre says, calmly. “And yes, I will be bringing Eponine back here, but only because I bought some beans from that roastery in Gowanus the other day, and I’ve promised her a cup.”

Enjolras doesn’t bother hiding his grin at that, and it’s only the bright pink tips of Combeferre’s ears that give him away.

Enjolras did get dressed in his running gear after that, and he even cleaned up their living room a little bit for Eponine, stacking Combeferre’s textbooks over their dysfunctional fireplace, and placing a crumpled pair of scrubs in the laundry bag. He likes to see his friends happy, and Eponine deserves all the happy Combeferre can give her.

Enjolras has always liked running. It’s a good way to clear his mind, to tone down the omnipresent clamour of work. He’s worked at Valjean’s non-profit since he was a freshman in college, providing legal assistance to incarcerated teens in the tristate area, and butting heads with the juvenile detention system. Work never gets any easier, no matter how many cases he gets under his belt, and running is a way of letting the anger that builds up over the week ease out of him.

He’s weaving his way across Grand Army Plaza to the Brooklyn Public Library when a man in a suit, carrying a portfolio, sprints past him and trips, slamming into Enjolras’ side. The portfolio goes flying, skidding heavily across the ground, and Enjolras just manages to catch himself with his hands before he hits the ground, glad that he’d slipped on gloves before leaving earlier.

“Fuck, _fuck,_  I am so sorry, are you okay?” The man who ran into him grabs a shoulder to lever him up, and it’s not until they’re face to face that Enjolras realizes that it’s the man he’d collided with in the community garden earlier in the month. “Oh, shit, Enjolras,” the man says, “Fuck, dude, I am so sorry, are you okay?”

“Grantaire, right?” Enjolras asks, wiping stray bits of gravel from the knees of his leggings. His knees are sore, but it’s nothing life-threatening. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire breathes, managing a grin as he looks Enjolras up and down. “Are you wearing spandex?”

“It’s comfortable,” Enjolras says, “are you wearing a suit?”

“Good,” Grantaire says nonsensically, and it takes a moment for him to wrest his eyes up to Enjolras’. He glances at his watch and lets out a low, vehement curse in Spanish. “Shit, I would totally buy you a cup of coffee to apologize, but I’m due to show my work at this gallery in like, four minutes, and I am going to be so fucking late if I don’t start running again.”

He picks up his portfolio, swears some more, and unzips it to check the contents. Enjolras gets a quick glimpse of bright colours and thick, black lines, before Grantaire heaves a relieved sigh and zips it closed again.

Enjolras kneels down beside him to help zip it up, and looks away when Grantaire meets his eyes with a smile. His eyes are still very brown, and very big, and the suit is patterned with slim grey pinstripes that brings out the slim angles of his chest and legs, and Enjolras shakes himself and fixes his eyes instead on the scuffed dress shoes Grantaire is wearing.

“Rain check on that coffee?” Grantaire asks, hefting the portfolio. “I’ve got three minutes, I really need to… uh…”

“No, of course,” Enjolras takes a quick step back. “I’ll see you around.”

Grantaire nods at him, and trots backwards for a few steps, juggling his portfolio into a more comfortable position.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras calls, on a whim. “Good luck!”

Grantaire grins crookedly, and uses his free hand to sketch a salute in Enjolras’ direction. “Thanks, sunshine.”

Enjolras watches him jog away, feeling warm from the top of his head down, in a way that has little to do with his run. When Grantaire is out of sight, he walks inside the library, intending to lose himself among the books.

The library is cool, and comfortably hushed at this time of day, and he rides the escalator to the second floor, wandering aimlessly through the stacks. He takes a long time to just walk, pulling out titles at random, before taking the books he’s chosen down to the first floor, where he buys himself a slice of lemon meringue pie and a cup of coffee.

He photographs the spread before digging in, to the book and the pie, and texts it to Courfeyrac, to prove that he knows how to let loose sometimes.

 _THAT 700 PAGE HISTORY OF THE ZAPATISTAS CANCELS OUT THE PIE FUN_ Courfeyrac writes back. _also u never told me u met R?!!!_

 _R?_ Enjolras types, thumbing through the book with one hand, and massaging his temple while he waits for Courfeyrac’s response with the other.

 _GRANTAIRE_ Courfeyrac writes back. _the afro-latino babe bahorel is living with. he said he ran into u!!!!_

 _He did._ Enjolras writes back cautiously.

 _ISN’T HE AMAZING???_ Courfeyrac texts, _HE LIKES YOU._ He follows this message with eleven winking emoji, and four flamenco dancers.

Enjolras’ cheeks warm, although he’d never admit that to Courfeyrac. When he doesn’t immediately respond to Courfeyrac’s previous message, he gets two more in quick succession, containing close to two dozen heart-eyes emoji, fifteen thumbs up, and three eggplants.

 _Please stop that,_ he writes, although he knows it’s futile.

 _No,_ Courfeyrac responds immediately. _when r u gonna see R again?_

Enjolras turns off his phone, and digs into his pie with determination.

+

The next time it happens is at the Musain. It’s Monday, and Enjolras is having a terrible day.

He’d been up late the night before, slept through his alarm, rushed through a shower, skipped breakfast to make it to work on time, gotten stuck underground for nearly thirty minutes on the goddamned _fucking_ C train, and stumbled into the office to find his inbox so flooded that he’d pushed all thoughts of food out of his mind, in favour of dealing with the day’s crises.

By the time three pm rolls around he’s so hungry he’s starting to feel dizzy, and forgetting the thread of the conversation he’s trying to hold with Cosette. She forcibly takes the folders from his jittering hands and pushes him out of the office, telling him not to come back until he’s had something to eat.

He starts to protest, and makes a grab for the case file she’s holding above her head, but Valjean comes out off his office and helps his daughter usher Enjolras to the door, making it clear that he’s not allowed back in the office until he’s eaten.

Cosette follows him out into the street, pushes him in the direction of the Musain, and stands watch outside of the office until he goes.

The Musain is his favourite café in Brooklyn. It’s right around the corner from the office, and has no sketchy labour disputes to speak of, not like the Gorilla Coffee just a couple of blocks away. The café sells used books and hosts community gatherings and slam poetry nights, and the coffee is nothing less than exquisite. No one pulls a shot of espresso like Musichetta pulls a shot of espresso.

It’s half-full when he walks in, the last of the lunch rush just emptying out, and the mis-matched tables and chairs populated by freelancers nursing enormous cups of coffee and Macbooks.

There’s a man behind the counter instead of Musichetta, with his back to Enjolras, strong shoulders moving beneath a thread-bare t-shirt as he pumps flavoured syrup into a cup. He hopes it’s Feuilly, whose coffee doesn’t have the flair of Musichetta’s, but who can still pull an espresso shot that kicks like a mule.

It’s not Feuilly.

Enjolras gets in line, and is reaching for his phone to check his email, when the man turns around to hand the teenage girl at the counter a frothy, caramel-topped concoction with a smile, and Enjolras’ heart sinks. It’s Grantaire. Of course it’s Grantaire.

Behind the counter, Grantaire smiles at the next customer, and then catches sight of Enjolras, who is frozen, wondering if he’ll be able to back out of the Musain unseen. Grantaire’s eyes widen, and the smile turns into something warmer, and just a bit mischevious. Enjolras scowls.

Grantaire works through the rest of the line smoothly. He’s good at what he’s doing, twisting gracefully through the small space behind the counter, and making small talk while his hands are busy on the coffee machine or ancient, bulky cash register.

Enjolras tries not to stare, and when that doesn’t work, he goes digging for his phone to read his email, only to find that Cosette has managed to lift it from his pocket. He knows it’s Cosette because it’s not the first time she’s done the exact same thing, just like he knows that the phone will be waiting on the center of his desk when he gets back.

Sighing, he resigns himself to looking everywhere but Grantaire and his smile and tattoos, which are not just on his knuckles but all the way up both arms: vines and flowers, Day of the Dead masks and a thick block of text across the underside of one of his forearms. The neck of his t-shirt is loose enough that it exposes the tops of his collarbones, and Enjolras can see even more ink creeping up into the hollow of his throat. He looks away, and focuses on the stickers slapped onto the coffee machine.

He’s concentrating so hard on not looking at Grantaire that he’s caught off-guard when it’s his turn at the front of the line, and he’s greeted with the full force of Grantaire’s crooked grin.

“Hello, sunshine,” Grantaire says, and throws his arms wide. “Of all the coffee shops in all the towns in the world, he walks into mine.”

“I’m pretty sure the Musain is Musichetta’s,” Enjolras says, and then, “Don’t call me sunshine.”

Grantaire beams at him, and makes no promises. “What can I get you?” He asks, picking up a paper takeaway cup and spinning it quickly between his fingers. “Let me guess: dry cappuccino.” Enjolras shakes his head. “Espresso. Americano? Surely not an iced coffee.”

“Just a pour-over coffee,” Enjolras says, biting down on the smile that threatens to rise to his face. “And your garden vegetable sandwich. Please.”

Grantaire salutes him with the cup, and shouts the sandwich order back to Bossuet, who’s rapping along to the Fugees while operating the panini-maker. Grantaire takes over the coffee-making, drawing out a Chemex and a clean filter to make Enjolras’ cup of coffee.

Enjolras fidgets while Grantaire works, watching him pour a stream of hot water in graceful circles over the coffee grounds and humming amiably along to Bossuet’s music under his breath.

“I thought you were an artist,” he blurts, when the silence becomes too much to bear. Grantaire looks up at him and shrugs, his hands keeping the circles of hot water flowing.

“I am an artist,” he says. “I’m a barista and a cook, too – Musichetta lets me pick up a few shifts a week. I cook at a Mexican restaurant in Bushwick on weeknights.” He finishes pouring and grins at Enjolras. “I cook a mean huevos rancheros – maybe I’ll make it for you one morning.” Grantaire winks, and Enjolras scowls at the way his body flushes inside and out at his words.

Bossuet shouts a hello from the kitchen and waves a cheerful handful of arugula when Enjolras startles. Enjolras waves weakly, and takes out his wallet to hand Grantaire some cash.

“Here’s your coffee, sunshine,” Grantaire says, holding the coffee out in a way that means they end up holding each other’s hands before the cup has been passed over. Grantaire’s fingers are callused in all sorts of interesting ways, and Enjolras jerks his hand back swiftly enough that the coffee spills and burns his wrist.

Swearing, he stuffs the bag holding his sandwich into the tote bag hanging off of his shoulder and gets a firmer grip on the coffee cup, avoiding Grantaire’s eyes as he makes his exit.

“Don’t be a stranger!” Grantaire shouts after him, and Enjolras lets the door slam when he leaves.

It’s not until he finishes the coffee and regretfully throws the paper cup into the trash can beside his desk that he notices the phone number Grantaire scribbled on the side of the cup.

Enjolras flushes, and types out three scathing emails before deleting them all and turning back to the trash can. He makes sure no one is in the hallway outside of his office before ducking down to scoop the cup out of the trash and input the numbers into his phone. Just in case.

+

The fourth time Enjolras runs into Grantaire, Grantaire is drunk.

It’s nearing the end of October, and everyone has gathered at their favourite beer garden in Prospect Heights to celebrate what might be one of the last warm days of the year. It’s been absolutely gorgeous all day long: bright blue skies and gentle breezes plucking yellow leaves from the trees and sending them to the sidewalks in cascades.

Enjolras’ friends have commandeered the back half of the beer garden, sprawled out among two picnic tables. There are small lights strung across the garden, candles burning in lanterns, and a radio pumping out latin music. Cosette is sitting in Marius’ lap, laughing with Eponine, who has a casual hand on Combeferre’s knee. Jehan is drinking a happy-hour mojito and turning his beer mat into a boutonniere for Bahorel; Combeferre and Joly are deep in a horrifying conversation about the bubonic plague; Courfeyrac and Bossuet are singing to each other; Feuilly is nursing a beer on his own, his feet up on the bench beside him; and Grantaire… Grantaire is dancng with Musichetta.

His face is glowing, and he throws his head back in riotous laughter just as Enjolras steps into the beer garden, exposing his neck, and more dark ink from the chest tattoo. His shirt is sticking to his back as he and Musichetta salsa between the tables, and Enjolras tightens his fingers around the neck of his beer bottle as he watches them.

Taking a deep breath, he hefts his bag onto his shoulder and joins Feuilly, exchanging weary smiles and tapping beer bottles in greeting.

Feuilly, on top of his jobs as an adjunct English professor at a local community college, and working as a bartender to help pay off his student loans, teaching writing workshops twice a month at one of the Brooklyn juvenile detention centers Enjolras and Valnjean work with.

“We’re reading Ta-Nehisi Coates,” Feuilly says, as Enjolras takes a gulp of beer to distract himself from Grantaire teaching Cosette to dance meringue. “It’s incredible. The stuff the kids are writing is really fantastic. I’d love to revisit that idea we had about raising money to print a chapbook of their work to get into a local bookstore. I have a friend at Greenlight Books who I think would be into it.”

With a surge of willpower, Enjolras wrenches his attention from Grantaire, who is rolling a glass between his hands and shouting something about a rumba to Courfeyrac. They’re deep in conversation about potential grants, and whether it would be feasible to design and print chapbooks on their own, when Grantaire joins them.

He’s shockingly warm against Enjolras’ side when he sprawls out on the bench between the two of them, wrapping an arm around Feuilly’s shoulders.

“Hello, Grantaire,” Feuilly says, laughing when Grantaire kisses his cheek, and toasting him with the Shiner bock he’s been nursing.

“Hello Feuilly,” Grantaire says, “Would you like a beer?”

“I have a beer,” Feuilly says, shrugging his shoulder out from Grantaire’s arm. “But maybe Enjolras wants one?” He smirks when Enjolras glares at him. It’s possible that Enjolras has not been as subtle with the staring as he thought he was being.

“Sunshine,” Grantaire drawls, turning his full attention to Enjolras, who has to look away from him to say:

“Don’t call me that, it’s Enjolras.”

“Well, would you like a beer, _Enjolras_?”

Enjolras’ name, in Grantaire’s mouth, is a lush, breathy sound. Beside them, Feuilly laughs at the affronted look on Enjolras’ face.

“I don’t need another beer,” Enjolras says.

“Sure you do,” Grantaire says, sliding warm fingers around one of Enjolras’ wrists, and pulling his empty beer bottle from his hands. “Come on, I’ll get you one. I need one too.”

“You need a glass of water,” Enjolras says. “And maybe some coffee.”

Grantaire pouts at that, and pulls at Enjolras’ wrist.

“I’d go with him,” Feuilly says, crossing his arms and leaning back against their picnic table. “Who knows what he’ll get up to if you don’t.” His tone is concerned, but his eyes are twinkling, and he’s definitely laughing when Grantaire enthusiastically pulls Enjolras to his feet and pulls him in the direction of the bar.

Grantaire is an exuberant drunk, all loud charm and loose smiles. He doesn’t let go of Enjolras when they get indoors and start making their way through the crowd to the bar. His eyes are very big, and warmly brown, and he’s flushed = a ruddy hue that turns his skin rusty in all sorts of entrancing ways.

He’s beautiful, Enjolras thinks, and trips over his own feet at the thought. Grantaire steadies him with a warm hand on his chest, and smiles shyly when Enjolras finds himself unable to do anything but stare at him.

When Combeferre asks him about it later, he’s not entirely sure how it starts. But he remembers the warm weight of Grantaire’s hand on the back of his neck, and the way his eyes had looked up close. And he remembers the expletive one of the Wall Street frat guys had thrown their way as he shoved Enjolras off-balance on his way to join his friends, and he remembers the way Grantaire had grabbed the guy without hesitation and punched him straight in the face.

There’s shocked moment of silence before everything erupts around them, Grantaire swearing and shaking out his fist, the guys’ friends shouting, and the man Grantaire had hit getting up and punching him back. Enjolras catches a flash of red on Grantaire’s furious face as he falls back against a table, and his mind flushes clean as he curls his hands into fists to hit back.

Through the chaos he can see Bahorel and Combeferre shoving their way to Enjolras and Grantaire, and he gets an arm around Grantaire’s shoulders to steer him away from the fight.

They’re thrown out not long after that, and Bahorel and Combeferre join them on the sidewalk outside of the bar.

“7:43pm on a Tuesday,” Bahorel says, grinning at Grantaire. “New record, bro.” They bump fists, and Grantaire beams at him.

He’s bleeding, and holding a wad of bar napkins to the cut on his cheek, while Combeferre checks his vitals as well as he can with no medical instruments to speak of.

“We should get you cleaned up,” Combeferre says. “We don’t live too far away, and I can patch you up at our apartment. Do you mind if he comes back with us, Enjolras?”

Enjolras is holding Grantaire’s hand, and can’t quite remember when he grabbed it. He nods numbly at Combeferre, and looks away when Grantaire turns another shy smile on him. He doesn’t have the heart to pull his hand loose, though, and when he steals a glance at Grantaire while they’re waiting for the lights to change, Grantaire is studying their hands with something akin to wonder.

Bahorel says his good-byes at their door, and leaves them to it with a clap to Grantaire’s back that’s forceful enough to dislodge the way their hands are loosely held together. Grantaire makes a displeased noise as Bahorel heads off, and reaches for Enjolras’ hand again, gripping it tightly. Enjolras doesn’t quite know what to do with that.

They follow Combeferre up the stairs to their apartment, and Enjolras twists his hand until Grantaire lets go so that he can guide him into their tiny bathroom. He pushes at Grantaire’s shoulder until he sits down on the toilet, and Combeferre disappears into his room to get his first aid kit.

“There are ducklings on your shower curtain,” Grantaire says, fussing with a rip on the knee of his jeans.

“It’s a gift from Courfeyrac,” Enjolras says, glancing at the yellow vinyl ducklings Grantaire is staring at. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. The bathroom is tiny, and even smaller with Grantaire in it, too, fidgeting on the toilet and wiping at the blood on his face with bar napkins.

“Water,” Enjolras blurts. “I’ll get you some water.”

“Make it whiskey,” Grantaire says, and winks, before wincing at the way it pulls the skin on his cheek.

“No,” Enjolras says. “But if you stay still until Combeferre comes back I’ll make you hot chocolate.”

Grantaire grins wearily at him, “Thanks, sunshine.”

“Don’t call me that,” Enjolras says, and ducks out of the bathroom when Combeferre turns up with his first aid kit and a look on his face that means business.

Enjolras walks to the kitchen, flexing his right hand. His knuckles have split, and he sticks his hand beneath a gush of cold water from the tap before lifting a handful to splash on his flushed face.

He’s not entirely sure what his heart is doing in his chest. It seems to be running in fits and starts, and it thumps heavily in his chest when Grantaire’s laugh rises above the hushed conversation he and Combeferre are having.

He places a still wet hand against his chest and pushes. His heart, still beating frantically, seems to have come unstuck from its usual place between his ribs, and he sits down at the table to press his forehead against one of Combeferre’s medical textbooks and take deep breaths.

He’s still there ten minutes later when Combeferre comes back into the kitchen to wash his hands in the sink, and put a cool hand on the back of Enjolras’ flushed neck.

“You okay?” He asks, quietly. “I told Grantaire he could stay on our couch, but if you need some quiet tonight I can get him an Uber home.”

“I don’t know what I need,” Enjolras says, “I don’t…” He exhales sharply and lifts a hand to rub at the anxious tightness in his chest. Behind him, Combeferre’s hand moves to his back and massages gently.

“Breathe, Enjolras, just breathe. In and out.” Combeferre breathes with him, providing a steady stream of support until Enjolras can draw deep breaths again; breaths that fill him from the inside out, and calm the nerves tumbling around his stomach.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, “sorry. I’m okay.”

“You don’t have to be okay,” Combeferre says. “Do you want me to ask Grantaire to head home?”

“No,” Enjolras says, and surprises himself with the vehemence of his answer. “No, it’s okay. I’m going to bring him some water. Can you put the kettle on? I promised him hot chocolate.”

“I’ll get the almond milk,” Combeferre says, smiling. “It’ll taste better if we make it with milk. And I’m bandaging your hand when you get back here.” He ruffles Enjolras’ curls affectionately, and moves to the fridge. Enjolras stands and fills a glass with cold water, knocking his shoulder against Combeferre’s in thanks as he makes his way out of the kitchen.

Grantaire is in their living room, plucking at the t-shirt he’s wearing, which has coppery flecks of dried blood on it. Enjolras puts the glass of water down on their coffee table – which is more books than table at the moment – and rubs his now empty fingers together.

“I have a shirt that’ll fit you if you want,” he offers, and Grantaire nods gratefully. He reaches up to tug the shirt over his head with a single hand, and Enjolras spins on his heel and bolts for his own room before he sees too much skin and forgets where he is.

He pulls a t-shirt at random from his closet, sniffs it quickly to make sure it’s clean, and heads back into the living room. Grantaire is shirtless and unrepentant, examining the crowded bookshelves with delight.

“Who do the Terry Pratchett novels belong to?” Grantaire asks, accepting the shirt with an easy smile.

“Those are mine,” Enjolras says, flushing.

“And the Tolkien?” Grantaire asks, his fingers resting on the spine of a tattered copy of _The Silmarillion._

“Those are Combeferre’s,” Enjolras says. “He studied linguistics in undergrad.”

Grantaire grins. “Does he speak Elvish?”

“Only conversationally,” Enjolras says, deadpan, and when Grantaire’s eyebrows fly upwards he laughs ruefully, and shakes his head. “No, Grantiare, he doesn’t speak Elvish.”

“Was that a joke, sunshine?” Grantaire asks, splaying his hands across his chest, across Enolras’ shirt. “I’m honoured.”

“Did you guys start the Tolkien talk without me?” Combeferre asks from the doorway. He has two mugs of hot chocolate in one hand, and Neosporin and an Ace bandage in the other.

“Combeferre!” Grantaire says, beaming. “Combeferre, talk to me about Khuzdul.”

“Drink your water,” Combeferre says, smiling. “Enjolras, come here, let me look at your hand.”

Enjolras submits to his examination with minimal complaining, watching Grantaire out of the corner of his eye as he swigs his water and then settles back against the couch with his hot chocolate. Combeferre cleans his knuckles efficiently, and bandages them carefully, before wandering off to the kitchen again.

Enjolras lowers himself carefully down to the couch, and takes a measured sip of his hot chocolate before glancing over at Grantaire to find Grantaire watching him.

“What?” He asks, willing down the flush in his cheeks.

“Thanks for punching the dude that punched me after I punched him,” Grantaire says, one corner of his mouth lifting in a self-deprecating smile.

“Any time,” Enjolras manages. Grantaire shifts closer to him on the couch, his knees falling apart in a lazy sprawl.

“I hope you didn’t hurt your hand too badly,” Grantaire murmurs. He ghosts his fingers over the bandage on Enjolras’ knuckles, and pulls them back when Enjolras flinches and tucks his fingers beneath his thigh, flushing hot.

“You’re not a very good host,” Grantaire says, and when Enjolras raises his head to argue with him, he’s got a smile playing around the corners of his mouth.

“I thought maybe you’d just go to sleep,” Enjolras says, risking a joke. Grantaire beams at him.

“It’s eight o’clock on a _Tuesday_ ,” Grantaire groans, “we need entertainment! Let’s watch a movie.”

Enjolras hesitates, but Grantaire lets his head loll back against the back of the couch, and grins at him. He looks like he belongs right there on their terrible plaid couch in their cluttered living room. Enjolras’ heart flutters, and he grips at his mug of hot chocolate to ground himself.

“What do you want to watch?”

“What do you have?” Grantaire asks, his smile turning challenging around the edges.

It takes them an hour and a half to agree on Star Wars. They make it through every single movie Enjolras has saved on his computer – “What the fuck, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, “these are all horrifying documentaries.” “That one won the Palme d’Or at Cannes,” Enjolras points out, and Grantaire slaps his palm against his face. “It’s about child soldiers in Sudan, that is not the kind of documentary you watch for fun!” – and then their motley collection of DVD’s, most of which are presents from Courfeyrac, who is widely acknowledged to have terrible taste in everything.

Enjolras half-heartedly suggests a Woody Allen movie he’s never seen, which Grantaire rejects on the grounds of second-hand misogyny. Grantaire suggests the new Wes Anderson movie, which Enjolras vetoes on the grounds of it being so twee “it makes me want to set my retinas on fire.”

“This is ridiculous,” Grantaire says, finally, sliding down to the floor from the couch. “What’s your favourite movie?”

“The Shawshank Redemption,” Enjolras says ptomptly, and Grantaire raises his eyebrows.

“That’s unexpected.”

“What did you think I was going to say?” Enjolras asks, and Grantaire shrugs.

“Something incredibly dry, like Citizen Kane.”

“Citizen Kane is iconic!”

Grantaire laughs at him, and Enjolras shoves at his shoulder. “Fine, what’s your favourite movie?”  
  
“The Empire Strikes Back,” Grantaire says promptly, and grins unapologetically when Enjolras rolls his eyes. “What? It’s got everything! True love, spaceships, space battles, Yoda, lightsabers, Lando- _fucking_ -Calrissian. I could go on.”  
  
“Lando sold Han and Leia out to the Empire,” Enjolras says automatically, “he’s a traitor to the Rebellion.”  
  
“He redeems himself later,” Grantaire says, flapping his hands around. “And then he pilots the Millenium Falcon and helps save the day! Lando’s the fucking best.”  
  
“I always liked Luke,” Enjolras admits, and has to smile in the face of Grantaire’s delighted laughter.  
  
“Yeah, well, you _would_.” Grantaire says, “but as a brown kid growing up in the Bronx?” He shakes his head. “Lando Calrissian was the closest you could get to the stars.” He has a small, wistful smile lurking at the corners of his mouth, and something rises up in Enjolras’ chest that makes him want to kiss that smile into something bigger.  
  
He leans back against the sudden surge of affection, and says: “I think Combeferre has a copy, if you want to watch it?”  
  
“Oh, hell yes,” Grantaire says. He settles back into the couch. “That’s the best idea you’ve had all night.”  
  
Combeferre has a book open on his lap but is paying more attention to his phone, while Enjolras roots through his unfathomably organized bookshelf for his Star Wars DVD’s.  
  
“Grantaire has a lot of bad opinions about movies,” Enjolras says, after a moment of pointed silence from Combeferre. “We’re watching Star Wars.”  
  
“Bottom right, next to the Joseph Campbell,” Combeferre says without looking up from his phone. Enjolras pulls out the correct DVD and has a hand on the doorknob when something in Combeferre’s silence tugs at him.  
  
“What?” He asks. Combeferre has a small smile on his face and Enjolras frowns at him. “ _What_?”  
  
“Nothing,” Combeferre says, dropping his gaze back to his phone. “Nothing.”  
  
Enjolras rolls his eyes and closes the door on another enigmatic smile.  
  
Grantaire falls asleep halfway through Empire Strikes Back. Enjolras, who has been sneaking glances at him since his eyes started drooping, turns the volume down on his laptop.  
  
He watches Grantaire sleep until his skin starts to feel too tight, and then he gets up from the couch as carefully as he can – Grantaire slips sideways until he’s lying where Enjolras was sitting – and goes back to Combeferre, knocking softly on the door.  
  
Combeferre is in bed, the lamp on his bedside table throwing a warm glow over his familiar features and gleaming against the lenses of his glasses. He’s still holding his phone, which is unusual, because Combeferre is usually a ‘read-a-medical-journal-before-bed’ kind of person.  
  
“I have no idea what I’m doing,” Enjolras whispers, and Combeferre smiles ruefully and holds up his phone, which buzzes.  
  
“Me neither,” he whispers back, and Enjolras knows, from the soft, proud smile onhis face as he reads the text, that it’s Eponine. “But it’s kind of a nice feeling, isn’t it?”  
  
Enjolras is sure his face is doing something embarrassing. His chest feels warm and tight, the way it does when he argues a case he believes in and wins, or when something nice happens to one of his friends.  
  
“I’m happy for you,” he whispers, and he means it so much he can feel his conviction pricking at the corners of his eyes.  
  
“You too,” Combeferre whispers. “Get some sleep.”  
  
Enjolras closes the door softly, and pulls a blanket from the back of the couch to lay over Grantaire. Cosette made it for him, years ago, when his parent’s cut him off halfway through their second year of college with no warning. He’d stayed with her and Valjean for months, sleeping on their couch, and when he’d moved out on his own, she’d hand-knit him a blanket in gorgeous shades of a deep, comforting red. “So you’ll always have a little piece of home,” she’d said, and he smiles as he arranges the blanket over Grantaire’s shoulders.  
  
In the morning, Enjolras wakes up to the sound of laughter and the smell of something delicious frying. Combeferre is just leaving when he stumbles into the kitchen, zipping his coat over his scrubs and waving at Grantaire, who is wearing yesterday’s jeans and Enjolras’ t-shirt, and pushing something that smells incredible around a frying pan.  
  
“Good morning, sunshine!” Grantaire sings, “Breakfast will be ready in a minute.”  
  
Enjolras stares at him and opens his mouth to ask him not to call him ‘sunshine’, but what comes out is: “I didn’t know we had eggs.”  
  
“You didn’t,” Grantaire says cheerfully. “You had muesli, and twelve-grain bread, so I went out and got you guys some real food.”  
  
“Real food?” Enjolras asks weakly.  
  
“Huevos rancheros,” Grantaire announces, flipping eggs in the pan he’s holding with a twist of his wrist. “Breakfast of champions. Sit down, it’ll be ready in a second. Do you have any salsa?”  
  
“There’s some organic ketchup in the fridge,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire rolls his eyes so hard it looks painful, and reaches for a jalapeño.  
  
Enjolras sits at their kitchen table and watches Grantaire move swiftly within their small kitchen. He plates their food with a flourish – warm tortillas, deftly seasoned rice, black beans, a runny egg, thinly sliced avocado, and grated cotija cheese, all covered with a swirl of chunky, homemade salsa – and slides a plate in front of him with a smile.  
  
“This… is amazing.”  
  
“My abuela’s recipe,” Grantaire says, “the best kind of morning after breakfast.”  
  
“You didn’t need to defend my honour last night,” Enjolras says, chasing a bite of rice and beans onto a scrap of tortilla. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”  
  
“Yeah, I figured that out when you decked the guy who punched me out,” Grantaire says, poking at the bruise that’s blooming across his cheekbone. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”  
  
“I work with juvenile offenders on a daily basis,” Enjolras says, dryly. “They’d eat me alive if they didn’t think I could handle myself in a fight.”  
  
“Point taken,” Grantaire says. “Next time, I’ll stand behind you and let you do the dirty work.”  
  
“Let’s hope there is no next time,” Enjolras says, more strictly than he intends.  
  
“You sound like my high school guidance counsellor,” Grantaire says, wryly. He uses a strip of tortilla to wipe his plate clean, and Enjolras follows suit, feeling awkward in the sudden silence. He wishes Combeferre were still here.  
  
“This was delicious,” he manages. “You really didn’t need to.”  
  
“I wanted to, sunshine,” Grantaire says, and he gets up and sweeps the plates from the table. “Don’t you need to get ready for work?”  
  
Enjolras sneaks a glance at the clock. He needs to leave home in about ten minutes, and he knows he has an inbox-full of things to get done today. At the sink, Grantaire is washing dishes and humming to himself. He looks like he belongs there, in Enjolras and Combeferre’s tiny kitchen, forcing them to eat a real breakfast, and Enjolras rubs at his chest, where his heart is pounding again.  
  
He washes his face and brushes his teeth quickly, and puts on a suit. He pulls his hair back into a tidy bun, and grabs his briefcase and leather gloves, joining Grantaire, who is fidgeting near the door. He makes an involuntary noise when Enjolras joins him, and his eyes widen comically at the sight of Enjolras’ suit.  
  
“I have to be in court later,” Enjolras says, gesturing at himself to explain. When Grantaire continues to stare, he frowns. “Is there something on my face?”  
  
“NO.” Grantaire says, “no, you’re good, you look… you’re fine.” He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. “Are you ready to go? Let’s go.”  
  
Enjolras bites at his lips to keep the smile that’s filling his mouth inside. Grantaire pauses outside of the apartment and hikes a thumb over his shoulder.  
  
“I’ve gotta get home before my shift at the Musain,” he says. “Thanks for letting me crash on your couch.”  
  
“Thank you for breakfast,” Enjolras says, and then, because that sounds prim and wrong, even to him, he leans in and kisses Grantaire on the cheek, just below his ear.  
  
When he glances back, just before he turns the corner for the subway, Grantaire is still standing on the sidewalk outside of his apartment building, grinning wildly at him.  
  
+  
  
It’s a week and a half before Enjolras next sees Grantaire, and it’s a hell of a week and a half.  
  
On Wednesday, they’d received the gutting news that one of the juvenile offenders Enjolras had represented only months before had been caught with some friends, trying to rob a convenience store. They’d been carrying, and the promising young man Enjolras had known will be a man before he gets out again.  
  
On Thursday, they get denied for an important grant that would have allowed them to extend their work beyond Brooklyn and Manhattan, and by the end of a sleepless weekend Enjolras is so tense that he snaps at Cosette Monday morning when she brings him a fresh cup of coffee.  
  
He apologizes as soon as he drinks the coffee, slinking into her office with his head hung low. She regards him with a raised eyebrow from behind a file for a minute, and then forgives him, hopping up to kiss him on the cheek and rub at the tense knots in his shoulders.  
  
Cosette is the only one of the three of them who can make the office coffee maker produce anything remotely drinkable – it’s always good to stay on her good side, and he brings her a sandwich and a pastry from the Musain at lunch-time, and sorts the mail for her when it comes in.  
  
Valjean and Cosette are like family to Enjolras. In undergrad, Valjean offered him a for-credit internship with the non-profit, wrote him a letter of recommendation for law school, and brought an air-horn to his graduation to make up for his parent’s not being there. One of the hundreds of slightly blurry photographs Valjean had taken at Enjolras’ graduation is framed on his desk, another sits on the mantelpiece of Valjean’s home, next to a photograph of Cosette on her first day of school.  
  
Valjean offered him a job the day after he graduated, and Enjolras can’t imagine working anywhere other than this scrappy law firm. By Friday, though, his control is fraying. His caseload keeps piling up, and he’s burning the candle at both ends, working late, and eating little – their kitchen still smells vaguely like the spices Grantaire used in his huevos rancheros, and he can hardly bear eating in it.  
  
At noon on Friday, Enjolras bangs his head against the bottom of the cabinets in their tiny office kitchen, and spills coffee all over one of the files he’s reading and the cuffs of his shirt. He’s swearing, and trying to clean his shirt in the sink when Valjean walks in with a coffee mug Enjolras gave him years ago. It’s got a photograph of them all in the Catskills, triumphant on top of the highest peak they’d climbed, faded from years of use, but Valjean drinks from it daily.  
  
“A bit of seltzer will probably help with that,” Valjean says, nodding at the stain, which Enjolras only seems to be making larger and more noticeable. Enjolras nods tightly and drops the dish soap he’s been using.  
  
“I think it’s a goner,” he says. “My head isn’t in the right place this week.”  
  
“Cosette tells me you’ve met a nice young man,” Valjean says casually, and Enjolras’ grip slips on the coffee mug he’s picked up again.  
  
“That’s not…” He says, before wilting under Valjean’s look. “Grantaire is not a nice young man.”  
  
“But you like him.” Valjean dips tea strainer full of Darjeeling into his mug full of hot water, and takes a sip, smiling at Enjolras.  
  
“I don’t… I barely know him.” Enjolras splutters. “We kept running into each other, and then we were at a bar last week, and I thought he might kiss me, but he punched someone instead. And then he made huevos rancheros.”  
  
“In the bar?” Valjean asks, his brow furrowing.  
  
“No, in the morning,” Enjolras says, and feels his cheeks flame. “He came back with us, so Combeferre could make sure he didn’t have a concussion, and he slept on our couch, and he made us huevos rancheros in the morning to thank us.”  
  
“And you like him,” Valjean says, gently.  
  
Enjolras takes a deep breath, and presses his fingers against the damp stain on the cuff of his collared shirt. “I can’t cook in our kitchen anymore, because it smells like the spices he used.”  
  
When he chances a look up at Valjean, there’s a misty look in his eyes that he usually only gets when he’s watching Cosette laughing with Marius.  
  
“I don’t understand him,” Enjolras admits. “I don’t know what he wants, if anything. And I’m not sure I know what I want.”  
  
“It’s not always something that you can apply logic to,” Valjean says. “You have to go with what you feel.”  
  
“I’m not sure if I know how I feel,” Enjolras says, dropping his eyes again.  
  
“Do you want to see him again?” Valjean asks, and Enjolras has to swallow around the lump in his throat that rises when he thinks about Grantaire in their kitchen, Grantaire dancing with Cosette and Musichetta, Grantaire in his suit with messy hair and his hands full of his portfolio. He nods, and Valjean smiles, and puts a warm hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “Then do that, go see him – take the rest of the day off, you certainly deserve it. Go see him. If seeing him makes you feel better, then go do that. Everything will fall into place.”  
  
“I’m not sure about that,” Enjolras says, but he picks up his coffee mug and taps it against Valjean’s when he lifts it up.  
  
“Everything will work out,” Valjean says, and he claps Enjolras on the back before heading back to his office.  
  
Enjolras leaves work an hour early, at Cosette’s urging. Courfeyrac’s waiting for him outside of the office, and he exchanges some complicated secret handshake with Cosette.

“Come along, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac sings, pulling at Enjolras’ arm. “Bahorel and Grantaire have invited us to their apartment.”  
  
Enjolras stutters to a stop, and is tugged into motion a moment later by a relentless Courfeyrac, who marches him onto the B37 bus, and pushes his hand against Enjolras’ mouth when he protests.  
  
“This is for your own good,” Courfeyrac says. “You’ve been moping, and Grantaire’s been moping, and this is _for your own good, stop struggling for the love of god_.”

  
“This is kidnapping,” Enjolras says, subsiding against his seat.  
  
Courfeyrac just rolls his eyes, and pulls out his phone. “Like you’re not dying to see Grantaire again.”  
  
Enjolras doesn’t dignify that with an answer.  
  
Grantaire and Bahorel live in the top floor of a warehouse in Gowanus. Courfeyrac throws the door to their apartment open with characteristic enthusiasm, and Grantaire, who is crossing the living room with wet hair and a small towel, sputters and loses his grip on the towel. There’s a flash of tattooed, and lithely muscled flesh while Grantaire gropes for the towel and his dignity and Courfeyrac wolf-whistles and drags Enjolras forward, into the room.  
  
At the sight of Enjolras, Grantaire bellows, “Oh, come _on_!” and wrenches open the door to his bedroom so he can slam it in their faces.  
  
Enjolras isn’t quite sure what his face is doing, but whatever it is, it’s making Courfeyrac grin so widely it looks like his face is in danger of splitting in two.  
  
Behind them, Bahorel calls out a greeting and eases into the apartment behind them. He has white plastic flowers stuck in his afro in a disordered halo, and is wearing one of Cosette’s hand-knit sweaters in what Courfeyrac proclaims is a “very fetching shade of lilac.”  
  
“Greetings, friends!” He says, and leans over to give them both a spine-cracking bear hug. “Beer?”  
  
Bahorel and Grantaire’s fridge contains two huge bunches of fresh basil, three plastic containers of takeout pad thai, and a six-pack of Red Stripe. Bahorel snags the beer in one hand, and rummages behind the basil for a small tub of guacamole. He pulls a bag of tortilla chips from one of the cabinets, and thumps a fist against Grantaire’s bedroom door to let him know that they’re going up to the roof.  
  
Grantaire shouts back something filthy in Spanish, and Bahorel just laughs, thumps the door again, and leads the way out.  
  
Grantaire and Bahorel’s place is almost certainly not up to code, but it has a big roof with a fantastic view of Manhattan across the river. There’s a grill they’ve hauled up there, a few lawnchairs, a recycling bin for their beer bottles, a few cans of paint, and a battered tub full of paintbrushes.  
  
Courfeyrac throws himself down on a lawn chair as soon as they’re on the roof, splaying his legs wide. The sun is just started to set, turning everything reddish gold as it goes. Enjolras takes a seat, pulling his tie away from his flushed neck, and takes the beer Bahorel offers, staring out across the Gowanus rooftops and trying to remember the last time he sat down to watch the sun set.

He shoves his chair back, grimacing at the sound the metal legs of the lawn chair make when scraped across the concrete roof, and settling back to watch the sun sink down behind the buildings lining the canal.

The door to the roof bangs open just a few moments later, interrupting Courfeyrac and Bahorel’s lazy conversation. Grantaire catches it as it swings back towards him, and props it open with a brick. His hair is still wet and curling haphazardly around his face, and he’s pulled on loose jeans and a sweater with a deep enough v-neck that Enjolras has to take a long drink of beer to keep himself from lingering on the inked skin it reveals.

Grantaire shoves Bahorel out of the way, as he pulls a beer from the six-pack, using his other hand to rub the back of his neck, which is still flushed a deep red.

“ _Hijo de puta_ ,” he swears at him, “you could have fucking _warned_ me.”

“I promised Courf beers and a show,” Bahorel says lazily, the chair creaking under him as he settles himself more comfortably. “I brought the beers, you brought the show.” He grins at Grantaire, and gestures expansively at Enjolras. “I think Enjolras enjoyed the show, didn’t you?”

Courfeyrac hoots with laughter and Enjolras rolls his eyes. Grantaire turns a deeper red than before, and tugs a hand through his damp hair. He knocks the cap off his beer bottle with practiced ease, and Enjolras takes a fortifying sip of his own beer before meeting Grantaire’s eyes and moving his legs so that there’s enough room on the plastic recliner for both of them.

Grantaire hesitates before joining Enjolras on the chair, both of them shifting until they’re facing away from the sunset, and away from Bahorel and Courfeyrac’s prying eyes.

The building they’re on presses up against another, taller building, and the plain concrete wall of that building has been painted – Enjolras never noticed before. He puts his beer down to study it, ignoring the way Grantaire is fidgeting and pulling at the label of his beer bottle beside him.

It’s a massive mural, stretching nearly ten feet tall, and at least that wide, with swirls of vivid blue, and pained gashes of purple, surrounding a center that is painted brightly, incandescently red. There’s a figure painted in the middle of the red, and they appear to be both exploding and imploding at the same time, yellow and white streaks of paint radiating from the dome of their head down obscure any concrete details. It’s visceral and beautiful, and it looks almost alive in the light from the sunset.

“This is a beautiful mural,” Enjolras offers, because it doesn’t seem like Grantaire is going to break the silence first, and Grantaire stills beside him, and steals a look at Enjolras, before going uncharacteristically still.

“Thank you,” he says, quietly, and it takes Enjolras a moment to parse his statement into…

“ _You_ painted this?!”

Grantaire frowns. “Careful with the praise, sunshine, you might hurt yourself.”

“No,” Enjolras says, “no. I mean… I knew you were an artist, but I didn’t know you did… I’ve never seen any of your work.”

“This isn’t much,” Grantaire says, flapping the hand not currently holding his beer. “Just a doodle, really. It’s impossible for me to look at a blank space and leave it empty.” He sets his beer down on the rooftop between his bare feet. “I mean, case in point.” He tugs back the sleeve of his sweater and holds up his arm for Enjolras to see. Enjolras, because he’s allowed to this time, takes a long moment to look at Grantaire’s tattoos. He has an entire poem inked down the underside of his wrist, and vines creeping up from elbow to shoulder.

“You drew these, too?” Enjolras asks, and Grantaire shrugs.

“I don’t like blank canvases,” he says, and goes to pull his sleeve back down, but stops, completely still, when Enjolras grabs his wrist to look at his hands.

Grantaire’s clever, tanned hands, which are callused from paintbrushes and burned from frying oil, and espresso machine steam, which made the mural on the wall in front of them like it was nothing, like it wasn’t coming alive in the last gleam of sunlight, like it wasn’t the kind of thing Enjolras would expect to stumble upon in MOMA. Enjolras turns Grantaire’s hand over in his own, the pounding in his ears nearly drowning out the sound of Grantaire’s shaky breaths, and traces the deep blue tattoos on Grantaire’s knuckles with a finger. His left hand says BORN, and the right says FREE, and Enjolras slides his pale fingers between Grantaire’s darker ones, where they fit neatly and perfectly together.

Valjean’s words echo in his head distantly as he squeezes Grantaire’s hand and meets his eyes, which are huge and shocked and a warm, beautiful brown.

“I’m not very good at this kind of thing,” Enjolras whispers, and squeezes Grantaire’s hand again.

“What kind of thing?” Grantaire breathes, his voice so low Enjolras has to strain to hear it over Courfeyrac and Bahorel’s conversation and the low hum of traffic below.

“This,” Enjolras says, and flushes. “Knowing whether or not someone likes you.”

Grantaire’s jaw drops. “Are you fucking with me right now?” He asks, suddenly suspicious, and it’s only Enjolras’ tight grip on his hand that keeps him from pulling away. “We’ve been meet-cuteing for _weeks_ now, and I’ve been flirting with you because you are fucking beautiful,” he pauses, mouth still open, turns red at his own audacity, and plows on. “You are _beautiful_ , and infuriating, and I’m not sure if you’re asking me on a date right now, or if you just wanted to hold hands and look at the wall some more, but either way, yes, _fuck_ yes, whatever you want.”

“What do you want?” Enjolras asks, quietly, drawing a shaky circle on Grantaire’s hand with his pointer finger. He thinks, distantly, that Combeferre would be proud that he thought to ask.

“I want….” Grantaire falters, and looks away, at the bright mural he’d painted. “I want a lot of things, but I’ll start with a kiss, so I don’t scare you off.”

“A kiss?” Enjolras asks, and he meets Grantaire’s nervous eyes with a smile. It takes a moment, but Grantaire matches his grin, his teeth bright white in the purpling light.

“A kiss,” he confirms. “And then a date – coffee, maybe, oh, or dinner, so we can have dessert, and then breakfast the morning after. And then…” Enjolras leans over to kiss the rest of the sentence right out of him, and Grantaire leans forward immediately, chasing Enjolras’ mouth greedily when he leans back for a breath.

Grantaire’s skin is so warm, and his hair is rough and still-damp beneath Enjolras’ hands. Enjolras feels like he’s drowning against his mouth, and he clutches at the broad shoulders and smooth skin at the nape of Grantaire’s neck, until a particularly loud shout of laughter from Courfeyrac reminds him of exactly where they are.

Grantaire sighs when they part, and the soft exhalation ghosts over Enjolras’ lips in a way that makes him feeling like he’s coming undone from the outside in.

“We could…” Enjolras says, at the same time Grantaire blurts:

“I have a room…” and flushes. “If you want?”

Enjolras nods, and Grantaire gets a look on his face, the same look he had when they first got tangled in dog leashes in a community garden however many weeks ago. He looks like he’s had the air punched out of him, like he can’t quite believe what’s right in front of him, and Enjolras makes a quick decision, and pulls Grantaire to his feet.

“We’re just going to…” He says, and gestures helplessly down the stairs in the face of Courfeyrac’s smug grin. Bahorel lifts his hand for the least subtle fist-bump in the world as they pass him on their way down the stairs and Grantaire rolls his eyes, but bumps fists with him anyway.

They stumble down the hallway, into the apartment where Grantaire trips over the edge of the couch and Enjolras grabs at his hips to keep him from falling, and then decides that he likes holding Grantaire by the hips and presses him back against the refrigerator, magnets and cheesy postcards falling to the ground as Grantaire rolls his shoulders back and pulls Enjolras against him.

They fall into bed in a graceless tumble of limbs, and Grantaire catches himself above Enjolras and grins at him.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he says, and laughs when Enjolras groans. “Just so you know, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to make it through tonight without using the ‘Did it hurt when you fell from heaven’ line.”

“Please stop pretending we’re in a romantic comedy,” Enjolras says, levering himself up, forcing Grantaire to sit back on his heels above him, and pulls Grantaire’s sweater up and over his head.

“Aren’t we in a romantic comedy?” Grantaire asks, grinning at him and taking a deep breath when Enjolras fits his hands over the ink on his chest.

“No one looks this good in romantic comedies,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire ducks his head, his unruly curls hiding his eyes and blush from view.

Enjolras traces the stylized letters across his chest.

“What does it mean?”

Above him, Grantaire smiles softly, and reaches down to trace a finger across Enjolras’ eyebrow, his cheekbone, the bridge of his nose... “ _Alabanza_ ,” he says, the word rolling like honey off his tongue. “It means ‘Praise.’”

“Praise what?” Enjolras asks, hushed. He flattens his fingers against the ink on Grantaire’s chest.

“You,” Grantaire says, and ducks his head again. “Me. This bedroom. Fucking… Bahorel, and Courfeyrac, and all the rest of our friends. Brooklyn. New York City. Praise everything.” He shrugs. “I had some dark times, a couple of years ago, and it’s a reminder of all that. Looking back at the bad, and then looking forward to the new, and remembering to praise every moment that I’m alive, that I’m still here.”

“Praise,” Enjolras murmurs, and drops his hands to cup the poem inked on Grantaire’s wrist, and bring his knuckles to his mouth. “And this one?”

“Neruda,” Grantaire breathes, his eyes on Enjolras’ lips.

“Tell me,” Enjolras whispers, and, because he’s feeling daring, meets Grantaire’s eyes while he presses soft kisses to the poem.

“It’s a translation,” Grantaire manages, before he shuts his eyes tight and tips his head back, arching gracefully above Enjolras, like all of the things he was never quite brave enough to dream have come true.

“Tell me,” Enjolras repeats, rolling his hips upwards, and smiling at the way Grantaire’s body goes tight, and his mouth falls open.

“And I,” Grantaire begins shakily, his own hips rolling sinuously to meet Enjolras’. “Infinitesimal being, drunk with the great… starry void,” He takes a deep breath, and lets his head fall forward towards Enjolras’, curls obscuring the look on his face.

“Likeness, image of mystery,” he continues, and uses one hand to push Enjolras’ shirt up and off, moaning softly when more skin is revealed.

“I felt myself a pure part of the abyss,” Grantaire murmurs, bending forward to brush his lips across Enjolras’ skin – his neck, his collarbones, the smooth indent between his ribcage – “I wheeled with the stars,” he continues, his breath hitching with the messy rhythm of their hips.

Beneath him, Enjolras feels himself become untethered and he surges up towards Grantaire, who catches him easily, and presses him back against the bed as he cries out.

Grantaire shudders against Enjolras, his head tucked against his neck, and Enjolras feels, more than hears, the last line Grantaire whispers against his skin:

“My heart broke loose on the wind.”

_Fin_

**Author's Note:**

> End note: Friends, I have never written a love scene before, in all my life. I’m more of the fade-to-black type, so this ending came out of nowhere. Although, to be honest, this is more poetry than sex. The poem is Neruda’s, of course, translation is Alastair Reid’s.
> 
> This story is inspired by the incredible, incredible fic that’s come out of the Les Mis fandom, and my own selfish desire for a Latino Grantaire who’s inked Neruda on his skin.


End file.
